


Funny Business

by Chrysaora



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe Exchange 2020, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Imperial Luke Skywalker, Luke and Leia raised by Darth Vader, M/M, Mutually Requited Lust, POV Han Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26049730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysaora/pseuds/Chrysaora
Summary: “Don’t give me a reason not to trust you. No funny business en route, and I’m sure we’ll be fine.”“Nope, no funny business,” Han agreed. The electrifying intensity of Luke’s gaze sent a sweet shiver of mingled anxiety and arousal down Han’s spine. Han held that gaze and favored Luke with a lopsided grin.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	Funny Business

**Author's Note:**

  * For [platinum_firebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platinum_firebird/gifts).



“The Empire expects good value for her credits, Captain Solo.”

Han narrowed his eyes at the darkly attired man in front of him. The cut of the uniform was Imperial, no doubt about that, but it bore no rank insignia that Han was able to recognize, and the hooded armorweave cloak which kept most of his face in shadow wasn’t a standard piece of equipment either. The man had not volunteered his name. If the cantina rumor mill was correct, however, the man’s name was Luke, and he was the twin-born son of Darth Vader himself, Emperor Palpatine’s cybernetic right hand and most fearsome enforcer. That made Luke the, umm, right hand’s right hand? The right hand squared? The right hand’s middle finger? Ah, whatever. Han never had been one for semantics.

“If her credits are good, the Empire has nothing to worry about—trust me,” Han said, tilting his chin up and throwing one shoulder backwards for maximum rakish effect. He was the pilot who’d made the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs; if the Empire was on the market for a smuggler, there were none better in the galaxy than Han Solo, Captain of the _Millennium Falcon_ …or at least that had been his pitch since the not-especially-tall, dark, _handsome_ stranger had first appeared in his comlink message queue two tendays ago.

“My sister told me I’m not to trust you. Fortunately for you, I’m not my sister.” Luke gave a subtle flick of the fingers of his left hand, and his glass of blue milk slid like sorcery across the table some fifteen centimeters or so and into his grasp. Han tried not to stare as he tried to figure out how the trick worked and failed. Luke lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. It was an odd drink to order at a smuggler’s cantina like this one, but Han supposed Luke wanted to keep his mind clear of intoxication or influence. Luke set his glass down again. His eyes met Han’s, which had been doing more staring than was strictly healthy for a smuggler who took work from Imperials. Umm, oops. “Don’t give me a reason not to trust you. No funny business en route, and I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“Nope, no funny business,” Han agreed. The electrifying intensity of Luke’s gaze sent a sweet shiver of mingled anxiety and arousal down Han’s spine. Han held that gaze and favored Luke with a lopsided grin.

***

Han brought Luke straight back to the _Falcon_. It was cheaper than booking a room above the cantina, and neither of them had seemed in the mood to spend the Empire’s good credits on that sleemo-infested shithole.

With that dark hood pulled down, Luke was even younger than Han might’ve expected. Not to mention prettier. He had a soft fall of honey blond hair that feathered at the tips and full, sensuous lips that attacked Han’s with enthusiasm. They kissed and sucked and licked and bit at each other as their clothes dropped onto the durasteel plate decking in messy piles. The basic black of Luke’s uniform concealed a trim, well-muscled expanse of warm, golden skin, and Han couldn’t get enough of it. They half-stumbled, half-tumbled into the _Falcon_ ’s double-wide sleeping berth, a frantic mess of limbs and bedsheets.

Han was already hard by then, his erection digging into Luke’s thigh. Luke was hard too—a long, pretty cock, foreskin retracted from the pink head, leaking glistening strings onto the well-defined muscles of Luke’s abdomen. Han grabbed it and stroked. “Is that a lightsaber you’re packing there, or are you just happy to see me?” Han whispered hotly into Luke’s ear.

Luke responded with a smile that was at once disarming and dangerous, toothy and fierce. He reared back onto his heels. Han felt himself being tossed like a ragdoll onto his back, legs lifted and spread. He would have sworn Luke hadn’t touched him and tried once more to figure out how the trick worked. Once more he failed. Too many distractions, he supposed. Maybe? So in any case he wasn’t quite certain exactly how he’d ended up in this uncharacteristically vulnerable position, but a moment later he was beyond caring at Luke lubed them up and began pressing his mighty “lightsaber” into Han’s eager, rhythmically clenching hole.

Aaahhh, Luke was so long; Han was seeing stars behind his eyelids as Luke’s cock touched places Han hadn’t known would respond this favorably to being touched. In and out, in and out, each stroke so deep, so perfect—Han couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself so much. He shuddered and lifted his hips to meet each of Luke’s thrusts halfway. Flesh struck flesh, the sound sharp, wet, obscene. And when Luke came inside of Han, hot and spurting, Han came too, more intensely than he ever had in his life.

Later, Luke opened his legs for Han. In the midst of burying himself in this unmitigated bliss, Han almost thought he might be in love. Or in lust, rather. He nuzzled closer to Luke and pumped his hips faster. Oh yeah, he definitely meant _lust_.

***

“What’s so special about that dust ball, anyway?” Han asked as he finished programming the hyperspace jump into the _Falcon_ ’s navicomputer.

“One of my father’s oldest enemies is believed to have survived in hiding on Tatooine for decades. I have been tasked with bringing this Obi-Wan Kenobi to justice…preferably without drawing the attention of Jabba the Hutt’s cartel.” Luke strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat.

Now, Han wouldn’t normally tolerate such audacity—Chewie was his co-pilot, not Luke!—but on this occasion he decided he’d make an exception. “And what will you do if we, uhh, I mean _you_ , manage to find him?”

“I will destroy him.” Luke’s hand drifted toward the lightsaber—the real one—clipped to the belt at his waist.”

“Huh. Okay then.” Han tried not to shift uncomfortably in his seat and failed.

“You’re just the pilot,” Luke said, ice prince all the way, so different from last night. But not, Han decided, disagreeably different. “We don’t want to alert Kenobi to my presence onworld…which is why I’m using you and not my own ship. Once we make planetfall, you will stay at port with the ship and wait for my return. No funny business.”

Han smirked, imagining all of the many, _many_ possible indulgent diversions of the return trip after Luke had finished up with this Kenobi person. If this was what it meant to be “used” by Luke…well, ha! He wasn’t going to be able to help himself. Oh, and what do you know? He was developing a fast-growing problem in his pants. “Nope, no funny business, no sir-ee. Perish the thought.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to the exchange on August 27, 2020.


End file.
